


Mind

by vipjuly



Series: Undisclosed Pleasures [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Contractor Dean Winchester, Goth Castiel, M/M, Profound Bond, Recreational Drug Use, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Top Dean Winchester, mild sub drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14503356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Allowing Castiel to lead him is stupidly easy. Normally Dean takes charge - partly because it’s expected of him - but to be able to be lead feels… good. And to be lead by someone like Castiel, who pays attention to even the tiniest detail and ensures that he gives as good as he gets? Dean is ruined for anyone else. He’s wrecked.Castiel has destroyed him.There’s no coming back from this.“What you make me feel…” Castiel finally speaks, his voice barely with pitch, his forehead pressed to Dean’s, “is…profound.”





	Mind

**Author's Note:**

> "Mind" - Skrillex & Diplo ft Kai  
> my muse has been finicky, but this castiel has me under his spell  
> castiel's [back tattoos](https://78.media.tumblr.com/7f52175a0be49ae6fff6543bcc236ace/tumblr_inline_pb62zbS7SM1r2mo2y_540.png)

_You love how you push me to the point of crazy_  
_And I love when you’re on your knees and begging for me_  
_You got me good with all these mind games_  
_There you go, you got my heart again_

_Say my name I wanna hear you call_  
_Hold me close I wanna feel your heart_  
_I’m in a cold sweat and I want you bad_  
_Now you got me all in my head, like damn_

This is it. 

Dean’s heartbeat slows with every breath he takes. Castiel prowls around the edge of the bed holding black nylon rope, allowing the material to cascade through his fingers, over his wrists, charming it like a snake, deadly with promise. Dean is seated against the headboard, pinned by Castiel’s gaze. Blue eyes trace over Dean’s naked form before they drop to the rope in his hands; Castiel lifts it above his head with both hands, eyes tilted to watch it, stretching it taut, the excess cascading down his arms like ballerina ribbons, poisonous black. He shifts his arms to the right, Dean’s eyes taking in the movement of his body - how his ribs shift under his skin, the flex of his biceps, the tensing of his abs. The iniquitous ink looks blacker than black and Dean’s vision seems to tunnel a little, barely registering any of Castiel’s tanned skin between the tendrils of scribe. Castiel’s arms shift to the left and drops an elbow, allowing the nylon rope to slide through his ruffled hair before he lets go of the rope with his right hand, death raining down. 

Candles are lit on nearly every surface of the room, blackout curtains blocking the outside world. There’s music on in the background but it’s so low Dean doesn’t know what it is, or what genre, but it doesn’t matter because all he needs is to hear Castiel. His breath, his murmurs, his movements. 

Crawling onto the bed, roaming panther, Castiel is evil embodied. His eyes are dark, his smile is raw, and he straddles Dean’s thighs as he drapes the nylon rope across the broad expanse of Dean’s shoulders. Dean shudders, goosebumps springing in its wake, and Castiel steals his breath with a kiss, tongue sliding into Dean’s mouth slow, devouring. Their chests slide together and all Dean has been able to focus on is Castiel since the moment they saw each other in the bar; his hands slide up Castiel’s back slowly, fingertips pressing into soft skin, and Castiel leans back slightly to break the kiss and keep Dean’s gaze captive with his own as he starts sliding the soft material of the rope along Dean’s broad shoulders and down his arms.

“Lean forward for me,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean complies, and with further quiet prompting from Castiel makes sure his arms spread slightly to the sides, putting space between his ribs and his biceps. 

Castiel works slowly, but diligently, in a way that allows Dean to feel every slide of the cool material against his heated skin. Dean’s eyes are on Castiel’s face, watching every micro expression that passes over it; how smooth Castiel’s features are when he’s concentrating, even though his eyes are dark with intent, his jaw set with focus, the glowing candle light putting an ethereal glow in those baby blues. Castiel loops the rope under his armpits, across his chest, over his shoulders, and back in a hypnotizing rhythm. He gently coaxes Dean’s arms to bend behind his back and Dean feels the sleek rope around his biceps and wrists and he lets out a little puff of breath, realizing that Castiel is rendering his torso totally immobile. 

When Castiel is done he sits back, the curve of his ass resting on Dean’s thighs near his knees as he looks over his handiwork. Dean glances down as well, eyes tracing the shape of a star, and he feels heat zing through his body as that realization of restraint sinks deeper and deeper within. 

Castiel shifts off of Dean’s lap and reaches forward to grab his shoulders, helping guide him to get his legs under him so he can crawl on his knees towards the edge of the bed and step off carefully. Dean’s cock is hard, his whole body flushed from the attention Castiel had been pinning it under, and when Castiel leads him over to the full length mirror in the corner, arousal punches through Dean so hard his knees get a little weak. 

The pentagram on his chest is beautiful - delicate, almost. Meant for a woman more than for a man but the idea is clear and the black rope against Dean’s tanned, freckled skin is… exotic. Candle light makes the contrast of the black against his skin look like an oil painting. Dean knows he’s an attractive man, but seeing himself like this; bound, submissive, controlled. His throat goes dry. 

Castiel is behind him, pressing kisses over the top of his shoulder and catching Dean’s gaze in the mirror. “What do you think?”

It takes a moment for Dean to make actual words with his voice. “It’s beautiful.”

“ _You_ are beautiful, Dean,” Castiel compliments lowly. His fingers reach up to where the rope is bound around Dean’s wrists, “You say the word at any time and I will free you.”

Dean nods. He has a feeling he won’t want to be freed at all. The snugness of the rope shifting against his skin, not so soft it tickles but not so rough it chafes, is a sensation he’s quickly getting addicted to. Flexing his fingers a little and finding the circulation satisfactory, Dean licks his lips. “This is a good way to keep me around.” The bindings are as sure and confident as Castiel himself.

Castiel huffs out a surprised laugh at the dry humor. “I will keep that in mind.”

The atmosphere changes again and Castiel turns Dean around to face him, searching his features. Dean’s breath gets stolen by sapphire hues, his soul gets taken with a kiss, and his resolve crumbles with a gentle nudge to kneel on the floor. Dean sits back on his heels and looks up at Castiel expectantly; Castiel cards his fingers through Dean’s hair almost lovingly, tenderly, before guiding the tip of his hard cock towards Dean’s mouth. Castiel’s scent takes over like a tidal wave, crashing through Dean as he takes him into his mouth, closing his eyes and sucking down what he can. 

Castiel enjoys taking things slow. He loves the buildup; the slow crescendo of pleasure until the climax is inevitable. Dean is pretty sure the man could edge for hours if he put his mind to it - if Dean were strong enough to let him - and he knows that when he lets Dean find release it’s because he experiences the tiniest flash of impatience, of greed for Dean, that he normally doesn’t feel otherwise. On his knees like this, bound like this, Dean feels small and powerful all at once as he takes Castiel apart with his mouth, tongue sliding over Castiel’s skin, pulling away to nose into his balls and suck them into his mouth to roll them around almost messily. Castiel’s fingers slide from Dean’s hair to touch along the ropes binding him and Dean feels the touch like a fire, imagining the ropes sizzling and burning against his skin to permanently scar him, to leave him with a pentagram tattoo for the rest of his life. 

Allowing Castiel to lead him is stupidly easy. Normally Dean takes charge - partly because it’s expected of him - but to be able to be lead feels… good. And to be lead by someone like Castiel, who pays attention to even the tiniest detail and ensures that he gives as good as he gets? Dean is ruined for anyone else. He’s wrecked. 

Castiel has destroyed him. 

There’s no coming back from this.

He swirls his tongue around the tip of Castiel’s cock and then pulls off with a small gasp to try and catch his breath and Castiel reaches down, hooking his fingers in the front ropes of the star to help Dean up to his feet, the ropes digging into Dean’s ribs pleasantly. Dean leans in for a kiss but Castiel keeps him in place, instead looking over Dean’s features; he doesn’t seem to be able to stop looking at Dean, truly _looking_ at him, and Dean feels simultaneously shy and exhilarated at the attention. No one has ever looked at him like Castiel does. 

No one has ever pleasured him like Castiel does. 

Castiel helps Dean back onto the bed, helping him to lean against some pillows propped up against the headboard. He moves to his dresser and opens up the top drawer, pulling out another rope identical to the one binding Dean - only his is the deepest of crimson. Facing Dean, Castiel drapes the end of the rope over his arm, trailing it down towards his fingers, winding the material between his fingers before he climbs onto the bed, returning to his spot on Dean’s lap. Not speaking should be unnerving, but for some reason, Dean knows everything Castiel means. In twenty-four hours in the Church of Castiel Dean has become fluent in his cosmic language, receptive and willing to whatever Castiel _implies_.

Castiel drapes the crimson rope around Dean’s neck, using it to pull the man forward for a searing kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth and possession and Castiel _growls_ at one point, causing Dean to let out an echoing moan. Castiel drags the rope over Dean’s chest, brushing it over each other his nipples, making Dean hiss as the flesh hardens in response. Castiel’s eyes rove all over Dean’s body; his chest, his shoulders, his neck, jaw, ears, mouth, nose, eyes. He sees everything, takes everything in, and Dean feels each look like a brand. 

Castiel’s beautiful long arms lift the rope up to drape it over his neck and down over his chest, nimble fingers and hands starting to twist and pull. Belatedly, Dean realizes that Castiel is binding himself in a similar fashion that he had Dean; a pentagram over his chest and shoulders, but his forearms free for use. While his hands are still free he reaches for the lube and a condom, stretching the rubber down over Dean’s hard cock and slicking him up almost excessively. Dean can’t take his eyes off of the way the crimson looks against Castiel’s tanned skin and black ink and he has the delirious thought that the crimson is going to melt right into Castiel’s skin, fuse with his tattoos, a red pentagram over his chest to add a beautiful contrast to the midnight gossamer wings on his back. 

Castiel positions himself over Dean’s cock and sinks down slowly. Dean almost closes his eyes, but Castiel reaches up to hold his jaw and force his gaze onto his, Dean immediately drowning in the ocean. Pleasure suffuses into every point of his body, his blood not boiling but simmering, toes curling slightly, fingers flexing behind him. Every time their bodies join Dean thinks he sees Absolution and he’s pretty sure he’s not far off from the truth. Castiel’s weight on him is Resolution and Dean wishes he could wrap his arms around Castiel, hold him close, fuck up into him and own him-

But it’s Castiel who owns Dean. 

When Castiel is sure Dean won’t look away he grabs the crimson rope, either end of it, and starts looping it through the bindings over Dean’s sternum. It’s a pretty pattern, threading the red through the black and Dean’s gaze falls to watch - Castiel lets him - and then Castiel is closer than ever, his arms around Dean’s neck and shoulders, securing a knot at the base of Dean’s skull. 

Bound together. 

“What you make me feel…” Castiel finally speaks, his voice barely with pitch, his forehead pressed to Dean’s, “is… _profound_.”

Dean can’t reply. He has no voice and no words but he can nod, he can brush his nose to Castiel’s and sure this had started out as something casual and a little crazy but _this_ , being physically bound and tied to Castiel in such a practical and intimate way - Dean is in the Devil’s den. Castiel is the fallen angel to keep him captive. 

“Please,” Dean finally whispers. 

The movements of Castiel’s hips are slow at first. He barely lifts himself up and drops down and Dean doesn’t have the leverage to fuck up into him so he has no choice but to sit there, pliant, arms bound behind him, Castiel bound to him, his cock so hard every drag of Castiel’s hot channel threatens to tip him over. The rope shifts over their skin, a gentle pressure, a constant reminder of where he is and who he’s with, and their foreheads are still pressed together, eyes shut in bliss as Castiel finally starts to pick up his pace. 

It’s overwhelming. 

Castiel’s presence, his scent, his control, his _everything_ is nothing like Dean has ever encountered before and Dean is getting swept away with it, pulled under without a lifejacket and yet Dean finds himself purposefully taking gulps of water, beckoning the end closer and closer to him because Castiel is on the other side, waiting for him. 

Dean wants so desperately to have his arms free so he can hold Castiel, but the slide of the ropes lets him know that Castiel is holding him infinitely, indefinitely, and the crimson ropes that Castiel had woven between them is _Dean_ holding _him_ and Dean’s head tips back, thunking gently against the wood slats of the headboard as Castiel rocks on top of him. Time is an abstract construct; he doesn’t know how long they grind together, he doesn’t know how long it takes for Castiel to finally lose control and really start fucking himself down onto Dean’s cock, but suddenly orgasm is washing through Dean and he’s letting out a long, drawn out moan that Castiel echoes before spilling between them, hot cum splashing over Dean’s stomach.

They pant for a few moments, and Dean feels lightheaded in a way he’s never felt after an orgasm. Even since meeting Castiel. The rope digging gently into his skin is clarification, justification; Castiel pulls away slightly, the tangle of black and red between them looking a lot like souls entwining, Dean thinks distractedly. Castiel’s fingers work behind Dean’s neck and then the pressure there releases, Castiel able to bring his arms back. He shakes out his wrists and then pulls the knot free on Dean’s, Dean feeling his forearms go slack. Castiel helps Dean bring his arms to the front, running strong thumbs along his veins in the direction of his heart to try and stimulate the circulation to start going back to center, leaving the ropes slack over their chests.

After a few moments Dean looks up at Castiel, cock softened and still lodged in the man’s body, regarding his features. Castiel’s hair is a mess, even if Dean hadn’t touched it, his mouth soft at the corners, his eyes drooped with content. Dean slides his hands up Castiel’s tattooed torso to allow his own fingers to tangle in the crimson rope, watching it weave between his fingers, before a thought finally worms its way into his head. 

“Cas…” Dean tries to hide the smile in his voice, “did you just marry me?”

Castiel smiles and Dean feels his entire universe light up, their chuckles shaking their bodies and making some of the rope fall free lazily. “I suppose I did.”

Ridiculous. Insane. Preposterous. 

Dean has known Castiel for twenty-four hours and he should run at the ‘m’ word, whether it’s a joke or not.

But Castiel had mentioned a profound bond, and looking at the ropes draped between their bodies, still connecting them and weaving them together… Dean thinks that worse people could have roped him into a premature wedding.

Literally.

Finally, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel and brings him down so he can lie them out, the ropes still loosely wrapped around their chest and limbs, his cock still lodged inside the other man’s body. A soft kiss to Castiel’s stubbled jaw and Dean runs a hand over his side, before allowing his fingers to draw back towards where he knows those beautiful midnight blue gossamer wings are spread out. 

“You are going to be the death of me,” Dean murmurs, closing his eyes and tucking his head under Castiel’s chin.

Castiel lets a hand rove over where the knot had been at the base of Dean’s neck. “And I will carry you into the afterlife.”

A smile quirks Dean’s lips.

Castiel is his fallen angel.

Dean’s soul is saved.

\--

They fuck three more times that day. It’s hard to tell where Dean ends and Castiel begins but Dean is finding himself unwilling to find out. To separate from Castiel would be to break their bond, and even though Castiel doesn’t use the ropes again they are a part of them; Castiel has wound the black ribbon around Dean’s fingers of his left hand and up his wrist to his forearm, an intricate lay of knots and twists. Castiel’s left hand is tied up similarly with the crimson ribbon and whenever they touch, Dean feels the electricity. 

Castiel feeds him lunch and dinner and stops to smoke a few bowls and by the time Dean knows he needs to leave and go back to the real world, he’s hesitant. Another shower has him clean and smelling like Castiel’s spicy, citrusy shampoo, and Castiel leads him to the front door for goodbyes, his fingers tracing over the ropes caressing Dean’s arm.

“Do you think you could replicate these knots?” Castiel asks, voice low, intoxicating.

Dean glances down at his arm; they don’t look too complicated, but he holds his arm up anyway with a lopsided smile. “Show me.”

Castiel’s eyes glance up towards Dean’s; the man is basically asking Dean to wear these ropes again, on his own, without Castiel present. But the thing about the ropes… they are Castiel’s _presence_. Dean can learn how to knot them up in order to replicate the last twenty-four hours. Castiel’s beautiful fingers pull at the knot closest to Dean’s wrist to allow the ropes to unfurl and loosen, pretty bloody ribbons. Very slowly and carefully Castiel shows Dean how he can tie the ribbon with just one hand, making sure Dean is following every step of the way. When he’s finished he tugs on the knot to loosen the rope and then Dean repeats all of the motions, a little slower, a little clumsier, but he nearly perfectly replicates Castiel’s style and feels a stab of satisfaction when Castiel leans in to press a kiss to his cheek for praise.

“This weekend has been… enlightening,” Castiel says. He’s in Dean’s orbit, barely a breath between them.

Dean reaches up to cup the back of Castiel’s neck and draw him in for a kiss, closing his eyes and inhaling, tasting, feeling Castiel one more time. Against his lips he murmurs, “Tell me I can see you again.”

He can hear Castiel’s smile in his words. “You are bound to me, Dean.” Fingers slip into Dean’s front pocket to pull out his cell phone and they break apart minutely so Castiel can look down at the screen as he programs his number in. The phone returns to Dean’s pocket and Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s slightly taller frame, pressing their bodies together - Dean fully dressed, Castiel only a beautiful midnight blue robe - lips searching for a slow, seizing kiss. 

When Dean pulls away, he could swear Castiel’s eyes flash electric blue, undiluted power pulsing through them. He blinks and it’s gone and Castiel’s face is open, warm, inviting… _home_. Dean doesn’t want to leave, but he presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead before opening the front door and leaving, knowing that if he doesn’t put distance between them he won’t be able to leave Castiel’s side. 

The door clicking shut behind him breaks the spell and Dean glances around his surroundings with fresh eyes clear of haze for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. In the evening light he knows where he is and he starts heading to the bar where his car is still hopefully parked (Ellen has never towed him before, but who knows when she’ll stop being so kind? Probably never, Dean thinks, but he still worries), only a slight limp in his step. He glances down at his left arm to see the black ribbon wound around his fingers, wrist and forearm, feeling a smile tug at his lips. 

What a weekend. 

\--

Monday is a drag, as usual. Dean doesn’t believe in “a case of the Mondays” because that’s utter bullshit; waking up at five a.m. on any day is enough to make anyone cranky. But he goes to the job site with coffee and his hard hat and greets his crew, maybe feeling a _smidge_ better than he normally would on Mondays. Castiel is still in the back of his mind - tan skin, inky tattoos, midnight blue gossamer wings - but Dean finds that he can focus on his job plenty fine. They’re renovating a gas station and it’s pretty run of the mill work, but by lunch Dean starts feeling a little… antsy.

Sitting down on his cooler he pulls out his phone, swiping it unlocked and scrolling through his contacts. He frowns when he doesn’t see ‘Castiel’ - but chuckles when he instead sees ‘Fallen Angel’. Chewing his lip, he takes a deep drink of water and then opens up a chat, thumbing out a slow text one-handed.

**Dean: What are Mondays at a museum like?**

He stares at his message after he sends it and wonders if maybe he should have started off with a greeting. Castiel doesn’t seem to follow any sort of social norm, however, so Dean thinks that this might be the best way to greet the man. Besides, Dean could do without the ‘how are you’s and ‘how is your day’s. Castiel ignites the need for _real_ conversation with Dean; something he didn’t know he hungered for. 

His crew talking about their latest conquests and general first world problems being the main case in point.

Finishing his lunch before the hour is up Dean puts his stuff away in his car and then rallies the troops to head back inside and continue working. He works through the rest of the day despite the weird feeling unfurling in his gut, and when it’s time to punch out and go home he gets behind the wheel of his beautiful Baby and pulls his phone out, opening up Castiel’s reply.

**Castiel: Similar to your Mondays, I presume. Lots of raucous idiots refusing to take direction because they know better than I.**

Dean chuckles; that’s about a regular day as a foreman in a nutshell.

**Dean: Is it 9 to 5 or do museums have weird hours for vampires like you?**

He puts his phone back in his pocket and starts to drive home, tapping his fingers against the wheel. He feels a little less antsy now that he has Castiel’s attention, and normally that would be a red flag (Dean Winchester does _not_ get attached so quickly, so easily), but instead he finds comfort in the fact that he can seek solace from the other man. Castiel had taken him without pretense, with no falsities, and Dean for the first time in what feels like his whole life, had been able to just… _exist_ , and allow someone else to guide him. Losing complete control of the reins has never felt so good.

By the time he gets home he smells ready for a shower and he finds himself missing Castiel’s stupid bumblebee shower curtain and the sticky haze of incense and pot that seems to linger in the air of his apartment. He scrubs the dirt and grime and sheetrock residue off of his body and gets out, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and making his way into the kitchen. He doubles back to get his phone off of the bathroom counter so he can open up Castiel’s reply, his free hand blindly reaching for the refrigerator door. 

**Castiel: I am far from a vampire.**  
**Castiel: As the curator I define my own hours.**  
**Castiel: To answer your question, I show up for a few hours to make sure the place hasn’t burnt down, and then I take my leave.**

Dean snorts. He sets his phone down for a second, fingers itching idly at his left forearm as he starts pulling out ingredients for spaghetti. He putters around the kitchen, the motion of cooking a meal mechanical. As he lets the sauce simmer he leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest as he looks out over his apartment. Bright. Spacious. … Impersonal. It looks like a professional decorator came in and furnished it with all the grey, beige, and soft yellow accents and Dean had never had a problem with it all before (considering he, indeed, had decorated his condo himself) but for some reason he feels like he’s seeing it with new eyes.

This isn’t… _him_.

Castiel’s apartment is a direct reflection of the man himself. Dark, eccentric, tantalizing… comforting. Dean’s condo may as well be an advertisement for the way someone _could_ live if they made almost six figures a year and were rarely home to enjoy it. 

Frowning to himself, Dean picks up his phone and types before he realizes what he’s saying.

**Dean: I don’t feel right.**

The reply comes before Dean sets his phone down.

**Castiel: Put the rope on.**

Blinking at the reply, Dean’s brows furrow in confusion. The black rope is on his nightstand coiled up prettily, the last thing he saw before sleep and the first thing he saw upon waking. He glances at the spaghetti sauce and deems it done; he strains the noodles and dishes up a plate, setting it on the kitchen table before moving towards the bedroom to fetch the rope. Walking slowly back to the kitchen Dean carefully loops and knots it, feeling the press of the material into his skin, that antsy feeling from earlier completely dissipating, replaced with… comfort. Security.

Huh.

He pours a glass of water and sits down in front of his plate of food, picking up the phone and reading over his conversation with Castiel. Not much of a conversation, really, he’s embarrassed to find. But Castiel doesn’t seem to mind, and as Dean glances at the black rope winding up his forearm he figures Castiel _doesn’t_ mind. He has Dean’s attention and that is likely enough. 

Dean cleans his plate and tidies up the kitchen before he picks up his phone and swipes over Castiel’s contact, bringing his phone to his ear and listening to the ring. He sits down on his couch, unsure as to why he feels the need to call Castiel - who _calls_ anyone anymore? - and drags a pillow onto his lap, feeling a bit like a teenage girl.

“Hello, Dean.”

Immediately any and all tension leaves Dean’s body and he relaxes down into the couch, a smile filtering over his lips unbidden. “Heya, Cas.”

“How are you feeling?” 

Dean, on the surface, feels as though that’s an odd question to ask; but, considering that weird sensation that’s been niggling at the back of his brain and inside his gut all day, and how Castiel seems to know exactly what’s going on without Dean explicitly saying anything - Dean relaxes a little further, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. 

“Better.”

“Good,” Castiel murmurs. There’s a weird bubbling sound on the other line and then Castiel lets out a slow exhale, Dean imagining the way the smoke tendrils filter and flow out of Castiel’s pink, pink lips. “You should wear the rope whenever you can. It will help.”

Dean nods silently, before licking his lips and agreeing verbally. “Yeah, ok.” He doesn’t question why the rope makes him feel better; considering when he’d been bodily tied with it all of his worries went away, he assumes it’s a psychological reaction that Castiel had expertly tapped into. A coping mechanism of sorts, to allow Dean to feel safe and taken care of even without physical touch of another human. 

“Do you have plans for Wednesday evening?” Castiel asks.

Dean leans back and puts the phone on speaker, resting it on his chest so he can free his hands; the fingers of his right start tracing over the ropes on his left. “No, what’s up?”

“An exhibit is opening,” Castiel replies. “I would love for you to accompany me.”

Dean finds a smirk furling over his lips. “You askin’ me on a date, goth boy?”

Castiel chuckles darkly. “I am. Do you accept?”

“What do I even wear to an art exhibit?” Dean wonders aloud, staring at the ceiling. The calloused pads of his fingers catch on the soft edges of the rope around his wrist as they pass. 

“A suit is not required. Wear whatever you are comfortable in,” Castiel says simply.

Dean laughs a little, “No flannel?”

“Dean,” Castiel says slowly, his tone of voice making sure that Dean absorbs every word he says, “whatever you are comfortable in is whatever you are most beautiful in.”

The compliment sort of winds Dean and he takes a moment to clear his throat and lick his lips, fishing through his addled brain for a response. How does Castiel do this to him? 

“I’ll find something,” Dean finally settles on.

“Good.” There’s some shuffling on Castiel’s side, his voice still soft. “I must go, Dean. Make sure the rope is not too tight before going to bed.”

“Right,” Dean glances down at the rope, rotating his wrist. Seems loose enough, still. “Hey, Cas?”

“Mm?” 

Dean’s heart rate slows and his body relaxes even further, as if he’s taken some sort of sedative. Which is preposterous - he’s only eaten dinner and talked to Castiel, but he feels himself inching closer to the edge of oblivion. 

“Thank you.”

Castiel’s voice sounds like a dream when he replies, “Thank _you_ , Dean. Goodnight.”

Dean doesn’t know how he makes it to his bed, but he does, and when he falls asleep he dreams of black and crimson and raining midnight blue gossamer feathers.

**Author's Note:**

> this series is developing a mind of its own and i'm not sorry  
> tell me your guesses on what castiel is/what he's doing to dean  
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


End file.
